The Art of Making a Cup of Caf
by MiralukaJedi
Summary: A retired smuggler has a fateful run in with the Yuuzhan Vong and a Jedi during the Yuuzhan Vong War. A tale of caf, the horrors of war and what it does to a society. One-Shot.


The Art of Making a Cup of Caf

"Cowards die many times before their deaths,  
The valiant never taste of death but once."  
_Julius Caesar,_ .32-37.

In the brief years since she had began her retirement from the smuggling business, Eira-Moriah Pajari had seen many things since she had started her caf cafe and importation business on Ord Cestus. It was much the same thing, time and again. Days bleed into each other with their routine. They were largely the same and it was something that the Kantaanian had observed that seemed to come with retirement for some sentients.

Regardless of the routine note of her current life, Pajari couldn't fully escape the habits that had developed in her past career. She still was unusually vigilant and if she felt that one of her patrons was a threat, she would inevitably find herself watching them obsessively. She had invested in a state of the art security system, heavily-not to mention- illegally modified. And despite hoping that she would never have to ever make use of it again, she kept possession of her old blaster and often had it concealed on her person. After all, in a previous life, she had been a close associate and ally of Jorge Car'das, who had made numerous enemies before he had disappeared. This could make her a target if they believed that she knew some of his old trade secrets, making keeping the blaster a necessity.

But things started to get interesting and bloody once the Yuuzhan Vong began their invasion of the New Republic. Pajari knew her history and had some ideas as to what might follow from a brutal invasion, which made her sadly shake her head at how she saw the various reactions to a seemingly unstoppable force. But she never thought in all of her current two hundred and ninety six years that she would ever live to see it.

And in her little cafe on Ord Cestus, she appeared doomed to see the worst of it. She saw men and women willingly conspire to turn against each other in the aim for a slim hope for survival. She heard of plots to destroy droids and other technology as a form of appeasement- she then made sure that she secretly modified the security system of the hanger where she kept her old ship, _Starlight Dancer, _to immediately alert her to any attempted break-ins. Soon enough, she heard of the most despicable idea of all: turning over a single group of sentient beings to the brutal aliens for no reason other than merely existing.

Eira-Moriah Pajari, while not presently associated with the Jedi, had known several in her younger days before she had met and become associated with Jorge Car'das. In fact, one hundred and eighty years before the Battle of Yavin, she had fought with them with the Kantaanian Rangers during the Dark Jedi Conflict. Even when she had been a smuggler for decades and thus an occasional target of the odd mission, she had secretly arranged to provide them with crucial information that had helped to defeat a business rival and much bigger threat to the galactic order than she: Ian Stark. In spite of that somewhat self-serving interest, she did hold a great deal of respect for them.

So, she was of the mind that if she saw or knew of any Jedi who needed rescue, she would act. She would not allow these cowards who preferred to take the slow path to death to contribute to the death of the galaxy's defenders who could only die once. She would stop them even at cost of her life.

The plan itself was an easy thing for her to devise. It was like brewing the perfect caf: take the right amount of time and patience, as well as skill, and the end result would be perfection. And in both her businesses, Pajari had learnt how to achieve perfection- in her opinion, at least.

The opportunity to act though, didn't come to Ord Cestus until nearly two and a half years into the war. There were whispers in the streets that the Vong were coming to Ord Cestus. There were mobs of sentients engaging in very public displays of droid destruction, even one culminating in a massive bonfire in the central square of the capital.

And there was more. There were assassinations of prominent people who dared speak out in favour of resisting the invaders. She heard even quiet but determined whispers in her cafe about trying to capture a Jedi or two to turn over to the Vong. When she heard that, she unceremoniously kicked the group out. In return, she found her place of business with marks that someone tried to vandalise it before the security system scared them away. Not to mention the ever so wonderful visit from a man she suspected might be one of the aliens in disguise.

"Do not interfere in things you do not understand. Or else you shall be swept away like everything that will not fit in the new order of things." The man- likely Vong- rasped through what Pajari imagined to be tattered lips in her mind's eye.

Deciding to be a little bold and brash, she walked right up to the infiltrator and looked him straight in the eye, never breaking eye contact as she spoke.

"You know, you really are a coward." She replied swiftly, intending to end it right there.

The man let out an inhuman snarl, lending even more credence to her belief that he wasn't really human at all, grabbing the lithe Kantaanian by the collar and slamming her into a nearby wall. Pajari braced herself as well as she could against the blow and quickly assessed that she'd likely want to see a physician just in case the karking blighter had given her a concussion.

"You know nothing human, nothing at all. We are not cowards and like all the others, you will burn in the end. We will show you true bravery." The Vong infiltrator hissed sharply as Pajari found herself fighting to retain consciousness.

_Definitely a concussion than. Just need to stay awake, that's all. _She thought to herself, quickly focusing herself on searching for something to say.

"There is a saying on my world: Cowards die many times before their deaths, the valiant never taste of death but once. I think that has much more application to you than it does to me."

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?" he asked again, bile evident as he hissed each syllable.

At this, she couldn't help but smirk with an obscene sense of pride at what she saw as the stupidity of the invaders. Even after likely taking decades of planning their move, they still couldn't take the time to find every little nuance of the myriad of galactic cultures they were to encounter. The sheer arrogance of it all astonished her.

"It means simply, be prepared for death by a thousand cuts. Now get out of my cafe or I will throw you out." She said.

At this, the Vong infiltrator laughed but let her drop to the floor rather roughly. Leaving through the nearest door, Pajari was certain that she heard him laughing about the innate worthlessness of the infidels. She assumed that must be the general Vong blanket term for the denizens of the galaxy.

In that moment, she decided one thing above all else: she really hated the Vong.

_So this is what it looks like when all reason is lost. This is what it looks like when the world has gone mad. _A harried Jedi thought to himself as he hid behind a corner from an angry mob that was out for blood, namely his.

Markre Medjev was a dark skinned Jedi from Kuat who had been with the Order for twelve years. He wasn't the strongest fighter but was capable enough- his true strengths laid in his abilities as a keen observer and researcher. That was why he had taken on the role of forward observer instead of taking on the Vong head on. But that didn't mean that he was in any less danger than the rest of his brethren.

He had managed to stay one step ahead of the mobs on other worlds he had been to since the Vong had issued their call for the heads of all Jedi. It was the luck of the Force that he had managed to avoid it so far. And now he was here on Ord Cestus running for his life.

As he searched for some sort of temporary sanctuary to protect his life so that he could deliver his information to the New Republic on Coruscant, he couldn't help but think about a number of colleagues he knew to have already died under certain circumstances. He thought of Dorsk 82, Kelbus Nu, and so many others who had died for the mere 'crime' of breathing and existing.

And now it seemed like he was going to be next. Markre could almost see the death notice that Master Skywalker would write and send to his family on Kuat. That in itself was nerve wracking enough without thinking of the new phenomenon of Peace Brigadiers posting vids of their exploits live onto the HoloNet, which in some quarters had included "arrests" of a few Jedi and even their being turned over to the Vong.

If he were smart, he'd steel himself to the thought of it all. Fear was something a Jedi could do without and even if he wasn't a Jedi, it wouldn't help him with mobs chasing him through the streets. No matter what, he had to make sure that his information survived him- even if he wasn't able to make it to Coruscant on his own.

Turning another corner to get away from the voices of the angry mob after him- which was getting closer- he nonchalantly moved into a nearby crowd of ordinary citizens going about their business, hoping to blend in. And surprisingly, he was able to do so but he still knew it wouldn't last. Markre knew the Peace Brigadiers had whipped up that mob into frenzy, meaning they would not back down from the idea of "Get Jedi! Kill Jedi!" easily.

_What I need is a way off planet. A way that doesn't involve ending up on the end of a Peace Brigade skewer or in the hands of a savage beating from the mob before being handed over to their Vong puppet masters. That means finding a person who is willing to help and not prejudiced against Jedi, finding a ship and borrowing it, or stowing away on ship heading in the right direction to the right place. _He thought to himself, as he approached a crowded but respectable looking cafe.

The sign read _Starlight Cafe and Caf Import-Export Company, _a rather grandiose name for such a small establishment if he had ever heard one. But at the moment, he had little time or care to reflect on such things with the mob after him. If he was to acquire any useful information as to how to get off of Ord Cestus alive, it would be at an establishment such as this.

He entered quietly and took a seat near a window but close to the rear exit- just in case he had to make a quick escape. He made sure not to attract any undue attention to himself. His Kuati accent would no doubt attract enough attention as it was.

And so he sat and waited.

Eira-Moriah Pajari was having a very bad day. The local authorities decided to start leaning on her business, likely in retribution for the trouble that she had given the Vong sympathisers and their little friend lately. They had blocked the delivery of her latest shipment of caf from Alha Hinta and demanded a payment of a supposedly overdue duty on an Ord Cestus specialty of caf that she had been preparing for export. But Pajari knew who had pushed for this punishment behind the scenes or at least thought she did: the Vong infiltrator who had given her that lovely concussion a few weeks ago.

She had enough. There was no real reason to stay on Ord Cestus any longer than necessary. She'd quietly spent the past few days making sure that her on world assets were transferred to a far safer place- Corellia, the planet she was most familiar with aside from her own home world of Kanata Prime and had spent more years associated with than her own. So much so that she was often mistaken as a native Corellian and a member of a long line of Corellian female smugglers who had been working for over a century.

An odd thing really to think when if one looked closely enough, you could probably figure out that the idea of a line of smugglers who looked so similar to each other that it wasn't a stretch to think that they might be the same person. But it was something that a Kantaanian had to get used to if they were to live a life in the wider galaxy where many species were simply not as long lived as they were.

She shook off those musings as began to looking into quietly liquidating the rest of her assets that would be more difficult to move when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. She saw a strange dark haired man with a well-trimmed goatee trying to look inconspicuous from the patrons of the cafe. Her sharp eyes caught him with some suspicion, a lingering legacy of her smuggling career. There was something about him that reminded her of things she had experienced before, many decades ago.

It wasn't that she had seen this particular man before- in fact she had never seen this individual ever but the air he projected was another matter entirely. The air of quiet serenity that was meant to both calm and disarm depending on the situation; oh yes, she definitely recognised that. She had seen it and experienced it first hand in another lifetime it seemed.

A lifetime ago when she had been a law enforcer with her people, tasked with tracking down the Dark Jedi whom had started to attack the Kantaanian colonies in the Mid Rim. And later, on the other side of the law, when she arranged to help double cross Ian Stark on behalf of Car'das- yes, she was certain that the man was a Jedi. And with things being as they were, the man's life was in serious danger.

She needed to do something. She needed to act. To save an innocent man's life and ensure that the cowards around here did not use him to contribute to their own deaths by a thousand cuts.

And so, she would act.

Markre waited for what seemed like forever. He heard virtually nothing of use except for local gossip that was likely to be more fiction than fact. But there seemed to be nothing of use that would help him escape his pursuers or get off of Ord Cestus safely.

The only thing that going into the _Starlight Cafe _had done for him was save him from the immediate threats he faced from the mob. That was it. It had done nothing else.

And just as he was prepared to leave to try his luck somewhere else, he noticed something had been placed on the table. A slip of flimsi folded in half was placed on his table, seemingly without him noticing a thing through either the Force or with his eyes. He looked around quickly but found that there was no one in his line of sight who could have dropped it there.

Slowly, Markre opened the slip and read the contents.

_Passage off of Ord Cestus available at 01300 tomorrow. Come to the Central Docking Port, Docking Bay 2-21 B. Look for the Starlight Dancer to light your way home. _

_Note: To avoid the inevitable search by port authorities for 'undesirables' attempting to flee the planet without registering for authorities, hide in the port side compartments. They are shielded and double plated, preventing them from carrying out useful scans. _

_Sincerely, _

_A Friend_

So desperate was he to escape, he only briefly stretched out with the Force to check if there was anything untoward that he could sense about the note. Finding he couldn't sense anything, he decided to take the risk.

For Markre Medjev, it was going to have to be an all or nothing affair.

Just as promised, Markre found a light stock freighter of antique Corellian design named the _Starlight Dancer _waiting for takeoff as the dock officers processed the paperwork and completed the final checks. And he found it surprisingly easy to sneak to the portside compartments, which while cramped, did allow him the means to escape. As promised, he found he was under no threat of discovery.

Once the ship dropped out of hyperspace, he found that he was still safe. They were on Coruscant, right where he needed to be. He found that he was able to slip out of the compartment he was in and rejoin the Order in time to inform the Masters of his report from Ord Cestus and the surrounding sector.

But he never discovered exactly who it was that delivered him to safety. And his mysterious benefactor never when out of their way to let him know either. In the end, all that mattered to Markre was that he had completed his mission.

Perhaps in the end, that was all that truly mattered.

FIN


End file.
